


The Hand Drill For The Pick

by CharbroilLaFlamme



Category: We Happy Few (Video Game)
Genre: A swear in the first sentence!, Disturbing Themes, For Science!, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lobotomy, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 06:49:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15858420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharbroilLaFlamme/pseuds/CharbroilLaFlamme
Summary: A cruel man may envy and emulate the cruel methods of his forefathers.





	The Hand Drill For The Pick

**Author's Note:**

> My disturbing apology for being inactive these few days!
> 
> I’m currently working off of some pretty bad hotspot wifi! Hopefully in a few days everything will be back to usual!

After all the fucking trouble of the running, and ducking, and hiding—the Downer had to sit pretty in one of their fancy, cushy chairs with metal clasps over his wrists, and bands on his legs that were beginning to dig as he fought for comfort.

He could smell something faintly sweet nearby—cloying, and almost sort of nauseating. Smelled like... something caramelised. And baked—but also vaguely _burned_. With only the barest hint of metal.

He didn’t like the connotations of that series of evaluations.

He had to sit still and wait while the physicians were getting some equipment ready. And he already wasn’t exactly an expert at relaxing. And being at the mercy of mad scientists... well, he only wondered how they’d convince him to put on a smile. 

He could see the paper plastered on the window that seemed to indicate that he was a subject.But to whom he belonged, it was still undetermined. And he preferred not to know—but he would surely be learning soon.

It seemed like only recently he had been on the run from the city, after defacing a building with painted vulgarities, running, clambering toward the gates to the Garden District...

Well, it was recent, but he was uncertain of _how_ recent—a few hours, spent under a trauma-induced sleep perhaps. He could still feel the welt on the back of his head.

But he awoke rather with a start as he had become aware that he was being strapped to a chair with peeling leather straps and cold metal braces. Then two iron plates screwed tight to the sides of his head—stuck in a humid room that was pulsing with dizzying, flickery lights, and definite flowing air coming from a barely maintained dusty vent above.

After twenty minutes of his newfound clarity, he was soon hearing voices, coming nearer to the door—first one with a cockney timbre that was exaggerated by exasperation at the other party.

“Are you fucking _bonkers_ , Doctor?” Someone bellowed from somewhere behind the door to his left, he tilted his head, barely—but wholly remained still and forward. “You don’t know if he’s got plague or something! Those bastards _bite_ , you know! And they speak in fuckin’ _tongues_! And probably spit _acid_!”

The way the Doctor spoke was like a cross between a snake and some sort of mystic—who, too, probably spoke in tongues. His every sentence—a long, loathing hiss. “Doctor Verloc is expecting this procedure to be done on schedule, this time. He was not pleased with the results of our last endeavour.”

“Of course not, you loon! Your last subject is next week’s _V-Meat_! Perhaps if you hadn’t spent half the bloody time fiddling with your damn knobs you’d have gotten better results.”

“Well... _miscalculations_ happen from time to time...” the Doctor did not sound very remorseful about the undisclosed, but frankly disconcerting incident. “I would have expected the human body to be much more resilient. But I am optimistic that this approach will be far more yielding of better results.”

“Well, don’t let my common sense kill your enthusiasm, doc.” One could taste the sarcasm oozing from the retort. “If he bites ya, don’t come crying—it’s your own damn fault for getting so close to ‘im.”

With that, the door whirred up and open, the Doctor came in. A second man—smaller and a bit more disgruntled-looking—wheeled a cart in behind him.

The assistant mouthed something to him in silence, stepping out of the room before things could get awkward. It was like he was praying for him.

The downer could see a black, leathery case on the cart’s silver surface, and several other medical accessories placed neatly down beside it. Turning his attention ahead to the bespectacled physician, the Downer could see the way he poised his hands—resembling a mantis, or a rat. Though looking between his wide-open, creepy verdant eyes and ghoulishly upturned lips and sharp, protruding teeth, he could easily see where both of those creature’s characteristics could almost converge. Creating something Lovecraftian—that smiled from the dark.

The door slid shut again.

The room became unpolluted by the outside noise, the rattling carts and the banter and chit-chat betwixt others working in this horrific, terribly-uncomfortable hellhole.

His spidery fingers wringing amongst each other, he began to speak. “We are so _happy_ to have you here, sir.” He lilted vilely, with a most fierce glimmer in his affixed eyes. “So happy that we have a subject willing to contribute to our onward march to happiness.”

He sort of continued to loom in an evaluative silence. Scanning his victim—savouring.

Then he reached down, at long last, to the fairly-sized black box. His nimble fingers expertly turning the dials, and shifting the latches.

Clicking it open, he grinned as always, but his brows angled down at the bridge of his nose.

His smile looked devilish in the sickening red light above, mingling with a sleepy blue. His hat casting shade over his staring eyes. “Now, unfortunately, it is quite difficult to permanently remove sadness from the human psyche with mind-altering chemicals alone—but we figure that perhaps it may be easier to go straight to the source of the affliction.”

He withdrew two tools—a long, thin modified ice pick, and a small balanced medical hammer. The sort used for testing reflexes—but most certainly had another purpose on this occasion.

“I’d recommend you stay still, sir, or this may get rather unpleasant. Of course, you are _quite_ secured. But one cannot be too cautious, you see.” He chuckled at his own humour and looked at the instructions on some sort of a bright-coloured brochure—much less out of not knowing how to perform the procedure, but as more of a refresher course. “Now, I apologise for any discomfort you may experience, but it will not last long.” He purred, not at all sincere with his apology. The subject continued staring up, terrified to move—unable to move. A deer in the headlights. The pick looming in his mind.

With very little effort and a suspicious lack of pain, the man felt a sliding pressure, moving andgliding along the smooth globular top of his right eye, reaching.

What he felt wasn’t pain. But a feathery, soft sensation

A bizarre feeling that may just follow him to the grave, stretching further and further back into his eye socket.

There was more pressure, then a sting, and a disjointed scraping sensation as the sharp end of the pick settled on the thin sheet of bone that protected his brain from the pick. “Ahh,” the Doctor breathed long and wistfully, almost to a rather lascivious level. Something filthy and mildly vicious resonated in his voice.

Then he laughed slyly, his face barely visible in the downer’s limited, and halved vision. “There we are.“ The Doctor’s pinky was poised elegantly as he held the pick with his thumb and forefinger, keeping his hand level and steady, contemplating his next move. Indicating he was not at all negligent—in stark contrast to the rather barbaric methods he seemed to favour. He took some time to observe, figuring the best approach.

It started with a single, gentle, but sharp strike with the tiny hammer—which rung in the subject’s ears.

The man’s fingers reflexively curled around the arms of the chair—drawing tight and white-knuckled. A physical sensation of nails on a chalkboard, or knuckles rapping at a door.

Flashes of simulated light, his eyelids twitched unwittingly. He didn’t want to forget, not anything or anyone—well, perhaps he could live without remembering this experience. And he could definitely live without the pick in his head.

His left knee bounced anxiously, unintentionally.

Then another strike had caused him to squirm and forced his train of thought to barrel straight off the rails into a patch of brambles.

The Doctor found this very moment optimal to initiate some idle small talk.

The vibrato of his voice showed his intense fascination for the subject, low and close to the patient.

“The nature of the prefrontal lobotomy goes back in history, my friend.” he said casually, while tapping the end of the pick again, rather overtly amused by his subject’s physical reactions—of wriggling and involuntary spasming. “I have never gotten the opportunity until now to perform this on a lucid subject.” He paused momentarily to inspect his patient. “Does it hurt?” He inquired, leaning in further, to look into his patient’s eyes. “No?”

The Doctor smelled of mothballs and rubbing alcohol. The stannic, acrid odour of the _fuel of the future_ —a burning, mineral smell.

The patient did not reply, afraid to. Angry. Furious.

But just as well choked by the series of conflicting smells he was catching on to.

He looked at the subject thoughtfully. “You see, what this is meant to do is alter the subject’s mental state... now it has never been a very conventional method, but science _is_ improved by science.” He reached further with the pick, the constant, visceral scraping made the subject’s hair stand on end. “And it is a much more permanent solution to our little predicament... although prodding at the human brain is rather—hmm— _messy_ at times. I’m sure you agree.” 

Then he twisted the pick, and moved it in a tedious circle. The scraping had since become background noise. “Fortunately, it is rather good at making you agreeable for a change—at the cost of a few forgotten odds and ends.” He quipped, shrugging. “Simply, the problem is all in the head, in your memories—years ago, our forefathers would have drilled holes in your skullcap to empty you out of stressors.” He said. Seeming to reminisce.

In some disturbing way, he appeared to be vying for the olden days of medicine. “Nowadays, we are much more advanced. Traded out the hand drills for more delicate procedures. And you should be grateful, sir, that we’re not using the hand drill, instead.” He said softly, but still far too close to him. “I like to think I’m much more friendly in that regard, most would prefer to put holes in your skull. But I think we should preserve as much as we can if we intend to fix it. Otherwise, what would be the point? And poking holes in it is... counter productive.”

He looked down in something resembling a muted regret. “I cannot spend all of my time with just _one_ Downer, when there are more of your kind popping up every day. It’s becoming quite difficult to manage.” The Doctor lamented. “So, I’m afraid that we have come to the end of our time, sir. God be with ye.”

The hammer cracked down again. Marking the man’s last cognisant moment.

_God be with ye._

**Author's Note:**

> Notes!:
> 
> — I got this idea after thinking about a Bioshock/We Happy Few crossover! Mostly because I started to drift into Bioshock Infinite: Burial at Sea territory in my thought.


End file.
